


All Choked Up

by scarletseeker113



Series: The road onwards [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletseeker113/pseuds/scarletseeker113
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been shot protecting John, and the aftermath is coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Mention of attempted suicide. And fake suicide.

John Watson had been through Hell. Or, at least, he thought he’d had. He thought he’d been through hell when he was in Afghanistan and he watched his men die in an ambush. He thought he’d gone through hell when the one person he loved best out of this world committed suicide. He thought he’d been through hell when his wife of one year had died, leaving him alone again. And if those didn’t count, well, then that night when he put an excess of morphine in his veins did count. 

A man doesn’t know despair until he’s avoided death countless times and then invites it into his veins himself.

So John thought he had a pretty good handle on what hell was, on what despair felt like and what crippling anxiety was.

It turns out he was wrong.

Despair is watching your best friend die in front of your eyes for a second time. Hell is thinking that this time he wasn’t coming back, and crippling anxiety is waiting outside of surgery, wondering if he was going to make it.

He is sitting in the lobby, watching all these other people sit there, and wondering what was going on behind their faces. Are they waiting for the fate of loved ones as well? 

The upbeat instrumental music plays from speakers in the ceiling. God, that music is annoying. He has to keep reminding himself that if he ripped the wires out of the ceiling then they would kick him out and he wouldn’t know what happened to Sherlock.

He is gripping his hands so tight that his knuckles are white and red.

Someone comes and sits next to him, pulling their knees together and folding their arms, settling in for a quiet vigil. 

John steals a glance. It’s Lestrade. 

“We traced the bullet,” he says quietly. “It was sloppy. Name’s Peter Layman. Probably an alias.”

John nods stiffly. 

He wants to thank him, but if he opens his mouth he’ll start screaming. So he just nods.

They sit there for hours, although it feels like an eternity.

The white walls of the room are pressing down on him and claustrophobia starts to set in a little bit, still John doesn’t move. 

If he starts to move he’ll start throwing things and cursing and crying. And if he does that they’ll kick him out. And he has to know if Sherlock is okay.

He cannot go back to 221B Baker street without knowing that Sherlock will join him momentarily. He cannot go and clean up the glass from the broken window if Sherlock might die while he was gone. And he cannot go and clean up the blood stain when blood might not be pumping through Sherlock’s veins anymore.

God, it hurts. It’s so much worse than when Sherlock jumped. Then, John was certain that he was dead. It was fact. It was indisputable. He was dead and that was that. He would have to move on.

How was he supposed to move on now? How is he supposed to go through life with Sherlock rotting under the ground? And he knows, that everyday he’ll wake up with this faint hope, this impossible dream that Sherlock’s done it again. He’s not really dead. He’s going to show up in the middle of the night again, and everything will be okay again. 

Which is a lie. 

There is no coming back this time.

Nothing will be okay again if Sherlock dies for a second time. 

“Mr. Watson?” the nurse approaches him slowly.

John looks up quickly, tearing his eyes away from the dull white wall. 

“Yes?” he asks quickly.

_Oh, God, this is it._ He thinks. _He’s dead and they have to tell me now. I can’t hear it. I can’t, I can’t I can’t Ican’tIcantIcant._

“You’re listed as Sherlock Holmes’s emergency contact is that right?”

“Yes.”

_Just tell me already. Get on with it._

“Are you family?”

“Is he okay?” John asks urgently, because he can’t take it anymore. He needs to know, and he needs to know now.

“Oh! Yes, he’s fine, he went through surgery without a hitch and he’s in recovery now, but you can’t see him if you aren’t family.” The man looks uncertain as he says this, as if he’s concerned that John might punch him if he doesn’t like the news.

John leans over, curling up and pressing his hands against his face.

“Oh, thank God,” he says. “Oh thank you, God.” The relief that he feels steals the rest of his words and he just sits there, pressing him palms to his eyes.

He can hear Lestrade next to him.

“He’s family,” he lies, “He’s his husband. They’ve been married for two years now. I was the best man.”

John can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Well, then he’s in room 12,” the nurse says to John, and he nods weakly and stands up.

His legs are shaky and he wobbles slightly.

Lestrade catches his arm and gives him a concerned look.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” John says, waving him away and he staggers down the hall, looking for proof that Sherlock is, in fact, alive and breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

His heart has stopped and in the heat of the moment, John can’t tell if it’s Sherlock’s heart or his own.

Maybe it’s both.

It certainly feels like John’s heart has stopped. Then it starts hammering against his ribs and screaming out it’s presence, so John knows with a certainty that it’s Sherlock’s heart that has stopped. Again.

The pavement is digging into his knees as he pushes against Sherlock’s chest, trying to bring him back to life. 

It’s not working.

John stands up. There’s really only one thing to do, now.

He walks into St. Barts and takes the elevator up to the top floor. He walks down the hallway calmly, finding the stairs that will take him up to the roof.

He has to follow Sherlock.

He always follows Sherlock, why would this time be any different?

The ledge doesn’t even give him vertigo. He is so sure that this is the right path. He spreads his arms, and then he tilts forward until his feet slip off the edge.

He’s falling and falling and falling-

All his muscles seize up and John jolts awake in the hospital chair.

He leans forward, breathing heavily. There seems to be a shortage in oxygen in the world at this present moment.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, and John stands up quickly, talking a few steps to reach the bed that his best friend lays in.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” he says and slips his fingers around his wrist, taking his pulse, even though the monitor beeps out every heartbeat.

“I need ...” he pauses, licking his lips, “my violin.”

John laughs, withdrawing his hand and folding his arms. “You wouldn’t even be able to play it.”

Sherlock scowls at him, a traditional don’t-be-an-idiot scowl.

John is so happy that he can receive these looks still.

“We’re even now,” Sherlock says. He speaks at a normal pace now, with painkillers pumping through his body. 

“For what?” 

“We’ve both been shot for each other.” Sherlock grins at him. 

John smiles involuntarily.

“You still owe me.”

“For what?” Sherlock shifts in his bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. He hisses, placing a hand over his injury.

The surgeon said that Sherlock had a couple of cracked ribs as well, which hadn’t healed properly from a couple of weeks ago, when John got stabbed. He knew he should have forced Sherlock to get x-rayed for that.

“For making me think that you were dead for three years.”

Sherlock sighs. “I told you, it’s your own fault that you didn’t listen.”

“What? You didn’t tell me anything.” This feels good, arguing with Sherlock feels normal. It feels like they aren’t broken and it feels like happier times. 

“We were on the phone-” John flinches, he hates thinking about that conversation- “and I _said_ ‘It’s a trick, it’s just a magic trick.’ You were supposed to understand.” Sherlock is resembling a grumpy four-year-old at the moment.

“How am I- You were talking about your deductions!”

“I paused for an abnormally long time before saying it was a magic trick. Dear God, I thought _you_ would understand.”

“You thought-” John pauses.

“You bast-” He stops again.

“You were on the bloody roof, Sherlock.” He says it quietly. “About to jump. You were committing suicide right in front of me, and you were leaving me to pick up the pieces of my life alone, after you had made me your partner and shared _everything_ with me, you were leaving me by myself. I was not prepared to pick out hidden meanings in your suicide note.”

John turns away, looking out the window. 

“I was trying to save your life,” Sherlock says quietly. 

John knows what he’s trying to say. He’s trying to say he’s sorry for the pain John went through and that he didn’t want to cause it. He’s trying to say that he hated watching John weep at his headstone every week and that he hates that they’re broken right now. 

And John understands. 

It’s frustrating that he understands because it means that they’re still partners, even though the partnership is causing so much pain. 

But this is what it was like before, John remembers. It was aggravating, frustrating, impossible, moody, and dangerous.

In the three years without Sherlock John had romanticized the times that he’d had with Sherlock, and now that he’s back he has to face the facts.

It _was_ aggravating, frustrating, impossible, moody and dangerous. But above all, it was the best time of his life.

It was real, unlike what he had thought of in those years without the insane detective. 

John turns away from the window and leans back on the sill with his arms crossed.

“Well, next time you decide to save my life, don’t die doing it,” John says.

Sherlock thinks seriously for a moment. “I can’t promise anything,” he says eventually. “But I will try.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I'm on a roll lately, I've been getting a lot of inspiration for this series. I would say I'm sorry for freaking you out at the beginning of the chapter with the whole Sherlock's-dead-AGAIN?-Oh-wait-it's-just-a-dream thing, but I'm not sorry at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that it took so long for me to write this chapter. Real life has been getting in the way majorly this week, it's been incredibly stressful. But this week should be much better, so hopefully I'll update a little more constantly. Thanks for being patient.

Sherlock is bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored.

God, this place is so tedious. 

John is sleeping the chair next to him, he refuses to go back to 221B Baker street without him. (Sentiment, it always gets in the way. Especially in the way of a bullet headed straight for your flatmate.)

He tries to be objective, to pretend that he doesn’t know anything about John and deduce him.

The outside of his grey jacket that is draped over the back of the second chair is damp, so he’d been outside. From the crumbs on his shirt it looks like he got a bagel at the cafe across the street.

It would have been ridiculously over-priced and wouldn’t have tasted good. The cafe was there to give the family members of sick patients somewhere to eat besides the cafeteria. 

The lines in his face are deep, meaning he’s had a stressful year. 

He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, but there is a line of lighter skin on that finger, so he has been married. 

It ended badly.

Sherlock sighs. There is no challenge in this, he already knows John’s history, what he doesn’t understand is John himself. (He’s so confusing, so emotional.) He’s unpredictable.

Sherlock reaches for the case file that John left for him at the foot of his bed. It stretches out his wound, and he hisses quietly, trying not to wake John.

He flips the case file open.

A picture of a blonde man stares back at him. He has green eyes, his face is square and his mouth is set.

(The thought crosses Sherlock’s mind, just for a brief second that maybe this man is one of Moriarty’s henchmen from three years ago, carrying out his threat. He might come after John again.)

He has a tan line that tells Sherlock he’s been abroad recently and the scar across his jawline indicates that he’s trained in combat. The set of his shoulders reveals military. (Just like John.) He probably went rogue after coming home and finding nothing violent enough to interest him.

(No, Sherlock rejects the thought. He couldn’t possibly be one of Moriarty’s, Sherlock destroyed his operation. It’s over.)

His name says he is Peter Layman, which must be an alias.

(He is working for someone else. There is not other explanation.)

He must have been a sniper in the military, to pick up the skills that he needed. He did shoot through a door and a window and would have shot John straight in the heart if it weren’t for Sherlock.

“What can you deduce?” John asks tiredly, stretching his neck.

Sherlock jumps, he hadn’t noticed that John had woken up. 

“He’s military, sniper, just got back around ... five months ago? The name is obviously an alias and I would wager a guess that his day job has something to do with construction, when he’s not shooting at you.”

Sherlock shuts the folder firmly, tossing it at the end of the bed. He stares forcefully at John.

“Don’t go after him alone,” he says.

“Of course not,” John says easily, picking up the case file and flipping through it.

Lying. (His left eyelid is just barely fluttering, which is his tell. He plans on going after Peter Layman soon.)

“If you go, I’ll have to follow you,” Sherlock warns.

That would surely rip his stitches and then he would probably bleed out in an alleyway somewhere. 

“I’m not going after him, Sherlock.” John says firmly.

Sherlock isn’t sure he believes him. 

“John,” he speaks quietly. (Appeal to his sentiment, the relationship. Ask kindly and ask sincerely.) “I’m asking you not to go after him, not without backup. Even Lestrade, as incompetent as he is, would be adequate.”

John scoffs at the comment about Lestrade, but his face softens overall, touched by Sherlock’s obvious caring. 

“I won’t go after him.”

But his left eyelid is still fluttering.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock wakes up to an empty hospital room. The sun is just setting, casting an orange glow over the room.

John was here while he was sleeping. He can smell the scent of him, and there’s a fresh indent in the chair.

There’s an outline of a gun in the back of the chair. John had had it tucked in the back of his waistband. He hadn’t stayed until Sherlock woke up, which was unusual. 

Panic starts to build up in Sherlock’s throat.

He comes to the conclusion in 1.57 seconds, which is not right. He should have known immediately. 

He scrambles for his phone, which is on the nightstand next to him. He’s clumsy, and his fingers knock the phone to the ground.

“Damn damn damn,” Sherlock hisses.

He never curses, it’s a waste of time and an overflow of emotion, but this is an extreme case.

He falls out of bed. His knees hit the ground with a _thud_ and he winces in pain from his bullet wound and cracked ribs. 

He dials Lestrade’s number and scrambles in his bag for trousers. He pulls them on one handed while the phone rings.

“Hello, this is D.I. Lestrade at Scotland Yard, leave a message after the tone.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock snarls.

Good God, there’s only one other person to call.

Sherlock winces theatrically, allowing his disgust to overcome him for a moment, but there is no other option. Theres no way he’s going get there in time with his injuries.

He dials the number.

“Sherlock, what a delight.”

He doesn’t even have time to insult his older brother. “John’s gone after him.”

“Peter Layman?”

“Yes.” Sherlock is hopping on one foot, trying to pull trousers on. 

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Sherlock sighs, buttoning his trousers and pulling his coat on.

“Mycroft, please.”

“A team is already on their way.”

“What’s the address?” Sherlock walks out of the hospital room half bent over from the pain.

“You could say thank you.”

“The address,” Sherlock spits.

As soon as he gives it to him he hangs up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, I know, another chapter should be coming soon though! And I've broken 800 views! Thank you guys so much! (I am exceedingly sorry for the excessive use of exclamation points there.)


	5. Chapter 5

“You know, two days after I met Sherlock I killed a man for him.” John holds his gun in his hand and looks at it fondly.

Peter Layman is frozen in the doorway of his own apartment, his hand still on the light switch.

John is sitting in an armchair, smiling pleasantly at this man who tried to kill him. He’s seething on the inside, he’s properly angry for the first time since Sherlock’s supposed death. 

“So, if I killed a man for a total stranger what do you think I’d do to a man who almost killed my best friend?”

Peter lets his arm drop from the light switch and then closes the door behind him. 

“That wasn’t my fault, I was aiming for you.” His voice is higher than John imagined. Maybe it’s just the stress of the situation.

“Well,” John says, “You missed. Badly.” He stands up, his hand with the gun in it hanging loosely at his side. 

Layman’s eyes dart to it, and then back to John’s face.

“I don’t miss,” John says. 

*   *   *

 

Sherlock is sitting in a cab, with a completely incompetent driver.

“Faster!” He demands. “Are you aware of the meaning of the word?”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” the cabbie says impatiently.

The cabbie is in his forties. Married. (Always faithful.) Two kids, small dog. (Terrier.) Has a passion for writing. (Callus on the inside of his third finger on his right hand.)

Sherlock cannot stop noticing these things.

He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, his stitches almost ripping as he does so.

He pulls out more cash, and flings it to the front of the car.

Suddenly the cabbie can go faster.

Sherlock’s clutching his knees because he needs something to hold onto. John could be _dying_ right this very minute. 

The thought makes Sherlock grip his bony knees tighter, and his knuckles turn white. If John dies there will be nothing, there will be no one. If John dies Sherlock is sure everything will fall apart. 

*   *   *

 

Peter Layman is still standing in front of John, watching his gun. John doesn’t particularly want to shoot him, it’s not satisfying enough.

He takes a couple steps forward, and then gives Layman a left hook to the jaw.

His knuckles connect with the jawbone, with an understated _smack._

That was satisfying. Immensely so. John grins slightly, before his moral compass reinstates itself and reminds him that he should not be taking pleasure in anyone’s pain.

Layman rolled with the punch, and then went to grab the gun.

The man may have been a sniper, and a damn good one, but he’s not good at hand to hand combat, John thinks.

He pulls the gun out of Layman’s reach and then brings his knee up into his stomach because it’s conveniently close to John’s knee.

Layman grasps John’s leg, pulling it up as he stands straight again.

John crashes to the ground, the air knocked out of him. He lays there gasping for a moment.

The gun is a few feet away now, it clattered out of his hand when he fell. 

Distantly, his mind notes that this is not a good situation to be in with no backup. Sherlock was right. Again.

Layman doesn’t waste time going for the gun, preferring instead to wrap his long skinny fingers around John’s throat.

It’s always a mistake to strangle face to face, John thinks. 

He doesn’t waste time trying to pry Layman’s fingers off of his throat. Instead he just punches him in the jaw again, which knocks him off balance enough to allow John to get back on his feet and breathing again.

He rubs his throat, giving Layman an annoyed look.

The gun is behind John now, Layman’s eyes dart to it.

John kicks it away farther. 

He didn’t want to do this with a gun anyway. It felt like cheating.

Layman barrels into him, sending him crashing over the couch and onto the coffee table (which doesn’t break, action movies are too dramatic with breaking furniture).  

John has time for a brief second to reconsider his decision about the gun, and then he can’t think about anything except how, exactly, he’s going to take Layman out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a thousand views now, guys I'm flattered. Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

When Sherlock bursts into the room John is sitting gingerly on the coffee table, checking his torso for bruises that are starting to form. Layman is siting in a kitchen chair. His hands are behind him, tied, Sherlock assumes, and his head is lolling on his chest.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John asks, he stands up, wincing only slightly as he does so.

“I-you’re okay,” he says.

“Of course I am,” John gives him this look, the one he gives him when he’s wondering if Sherlock is drugged or not. 

“I thought...” And Sherlock fades out again. He’s feeling very tired. His balance suddenly shifts and he’s swaying. 

John is suddenly beside him, propping him up. “Come on, let’s get home.”

“What about him?” Sherlock waves to Layman.

“I texted Lestrade,” John says, pulling Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders. “Honestly, Sherlock, what were you thinking? It’s not like you would have been any help in a fight, look at you. I would have just been injured protecting you.” 

He’s right of course, Sherlock would have only been a hindrance.

“You’re upset,” he says vaguely.

“Good deduction.”

Sherlock can tell that John’s rolling his eyes. 

They walk out onto the street. Well, John staggers and Sherlock sort of goes along with it.

A sleek black car comes up next to the curb, and a couple of men dressed in plain clothes walk into the apartment building. 

John sighs.

“How does your brother even know about this?” he asks. “Does he just watch me all the time?”

“I called him about it,” Sherlock says.

“What?” John looks at him like he’s insane. (Sherlock feels like he gets this look quite often.) 

John sighs. “Now we’re going to have to take one of his cases, all because you thought I couldn’t handle myself, and I am not going to listen to you complain about it Sherlock. I will not do it.” 

Sherlock mentally sighs, because he knows that if he even complains a little bit then John will give him his disapproving look. It makes him feel like a child. (Also, it makes him feel inadequate, but that’s just sentiment talking.)

John pushes him into the car and climbs in after.

“Ah, John you’re alright.”

John looks up at the ceiling. “Does everyone remember that I went to Afghanistan? Do we all remember that? I did survive a war, I think I can handle one man.”

The car pulls away smoothly, rolling towards Baker Street.

“Yes, well, Sherlock was concerned.”

“He shouldn’t have been, Layman’s rubbish at hand to hand combat.”

“Clearly,” Mycroft says, and John doesn’t ask for more clarification on how exactly he knows that. (Sherlock knows exactly how Mycroft knows that, of course. John isn’t acting injured in anyway, it’s obvious.)

“You know, Sherlock I could use your help on something.” Mycroft adjusts the umbrella in his hand. 

Sherlock sighs loudly, tapping his fingers on his knees in irritation.

John gives him a firm look.

“I don’t want to do it,” Sherlock says. (And it’s obviously true. He does want a case, but not one of Mycroft’s.)

John looks at Sherlock more intently, and Sherlock recognizes his doctor face immediately. Sherlock hates that face because it always means something awful is coming.

“Are we going to the bospital or Baker street?” John asks Mycroft.

“The hospital,” Mycroft answers.

John nods, satisfied.

“I don’t want to go back there,” Sherlock says, (well, whines) and John silences him with a look.

“If you hadn’t gotten out of bed then you would have been out of the hospital much sooner. You’ve brought this on yourself you know.”

“Well, next time, don’t go after a sniper on your own,” Sherlock snaps.

John throws his hands up in the air. He’s upset about something, Sherlock knows. He’s just not sure what.

The car glides to a stop.

John shuffles out, leaning over to haul Sherlock out as well.

“I’ll contact you about the case,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock scowls.

“Your own fault,” John reminds him.

Together, they limp into the hospital. They are silent as they get back to Sherlock’s room, where the nurses yell at him for a full ten minutes while he dozes on the bed. John just sits there with his head in his hands.

Finally, they leave and the room is blessedly silent. John shuts the door firmly behind them and then walks over and checks everything they did to Sherlock. Then he goes over to the windows and shuts the blinds.

“Paranoid?” Sherlock asks. 

“A little,” John answers. He sighs, leaning against the window sill. “I think you’re right,” he finally says.

“What about?” Sherlock asks and the silently clear, _this time_ hangs in the air between them.

“We spend too much time in the bloody hospital.”

Sherlock laughs. He actually laughs, full bodied, it hurts his wound and he is gasping for air. 

He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, it was a long time ago. Years. The last time was with John. They had just solved a case and Sherlock can’t even remember what he said, but John had evidently found it amusing, and Sherlock had to laugh when he did, and then their mirth just built up off of each other’s.

They haven’t laughed like this since Sherlock’s been back, and it feels like something has clicked in them. 

Sherlock watches as John’s face crinkles and he laughs with Sherlock, and John’s laugh releases a tension that Sherlock didn’t know he was carrying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's going to be one more chapter in this installment. And then from there on, I simply don't know. I suppose it just depends on whether I'm satisfied actually ending this series or not...


	7. Chapter 7

John opens the door for Sherlock, standing back as he steps inside. He steps with his usual grace, but John can see the slight limp, the slight hold back that indicates pain.

He sighs, knowing that Sherlock will not take any more pain medication as much as John asks him to. He doesn’t know why Sherlock is completely against drugs suddenly. When he asked him about it Sherlock muttered something like, “Makes me distant.”

John didn’t understand that at all.

Sherlock stalks straight towards the couch and throws himself on it in a huff. He steeples his fingers together underneath his chin and stares at the ceiling.

“Tea?” John asks, pausing on his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock sends him a withering look and with a flamboyant flopping of his long limbs, turns so that his face is pressed into the back of the couch.

John purses his lips, resisting the urge to sigh again.

He decides against the tea, and instead heads up to his room, strips off his jeans and pulls on pajama pants. He crawls into bed with a grateful sigh. It had been a long day.

 *   *   *

John wakes up in the middle of the night for no reason. He turns over, trying to go back to sleep again, but it doesn’t work. He didn’t have nightmares, which is surprising considering the events of the past couple of days.

God, he’s tired. He’s tired of everything. He just wants to sleep for the rest of his life, until he slips peacefully into oblivion. He contemplates that thought with a slight smile on his face, and then realizes that he could never do that. He has to keep Sherlock out of trouble.

As he lays there, thinking about his flatmate, he realizes with a shock that he doesn’t want to do many more cases. He doesn’t want to run through London wondering when he will get injured next- or worse, when Sherlock will get injured next. 

He gets out of bed, because as much as he says he wants to stay there forever he knows it would never make him happy.

He pads down the stairs and looks around. Sherlock has vacated the couch; he is sitting in the kitchen instead, one eye pressed to the microscope and his long fingers twiddling the knobs.

“What are you doing?” John asks warily, eyeing what looks suspiciously like cow brain that is on a china plate in the middle of the island.

Sherlock doesn’t even deign to answer, instead just flaps his hands in John’s general direction.

It’s one of those moods then.

John goes back to bed. He doesn’t sleep.

When he gets back from work the next day Sherlock is back on the couch. He has changed out of his suit, opting instead for his blue dressing gown that floats around him when he moves. Of course, he isn’t moving right now.

John doesn’t say anything, preoccupied with his thoughts.

If Sherlock keeps taking cases John will, of course, follow him. The thought of letting him go out alone is repugnant, unacceptable. 

John kicks the door closed behind him and walks heavily over to the arm chair and sits down, letting his weight off of his feet, which is a tremendous relief.

He rolls his head so that he can peer at his flatmate out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock is curled up, his hair is mussed and he has wrapped his arms around his knees. He looks like a five year old child who is afraid of the dark.

John stands up again, trying not to groan. When had he gotten old? He feels like his joints are protesting his every move.

“Let me see,” he says quietly, tugging Sherlock’s arms away from his knees.

Sherlock sighs dramatically, then sits up in a fluid motion and tugs his shirt up. John peels back the pad of gauze and then inspects the wound. When he deems it worthy he replaces the bandage with care, smoothing out the tape at the ends. 

He nods, not speaking because he know that unnecessary speaking when Sherlock is in one of these moods only serves to make Sherlock stay silent longer. 

Sherlock drops his shirt, and then collapses on the couch in a huff.

John wonders if he’s even slept in the last couple of days.

He stands above Sherlock for a long minute, contemplating every option they have.

Then he grabs his jacket and heads to Tesco.

* * *

When he gets back several hours later- a trip to Tesco actually turned into wandering around London for a long time- Sherlock is draped across the kitchen table asleep.

John stands there, his nose red with cold and looks at Sherlock. He looks like a child with his curly hair flopping all over his forehead and his face smoothed out in sleep.

John wonders how exactly he got to be curled up on top of the kitchen table, and then decides that he’s really better off not knowing.

“Sherlock,” he says quietly, but his flatmate doesn’t even stir.

John groans, slipping one arm underneath his knees and one arm around his shoulders, bracing himself and picking him up.

John spends half a second worrying about how light Sherlock is, and then spends the rest of the trip worrying about his back.

He really has gotten old, and this realization hits him hard.

He nudges Sherlock’s bedroom door open with his hip and it swings open soundlessly. He takes the last couple steps to the bed. He is tempted to unceremoniously dump Sherlock there and leave, but that would wake him up, and John knows that he needs every second of sleep that he can get. 

So he lowers him gently onto the bed, tugging the blankets out from underneath his flatmate's body and then draping them over his inert form.

John stares at him for a moment longer, and then retreats, shutting the door softly behind him.

 *   *   *

The violin music wakes him up, it’s soft and slow and definitely one of Sherlock’s own compositions.

John is unsure how Sherlock always knows when he’s having a nightmare, but he’s grateful to wake up to violin music. 

He gets out of bed, pushing the images of Mary dying and Sherlock bleeding out of his head and padding down the stairs softly.

He sits down in his armchair, watching Sherlock as he stands at the window and plays slowly.

He must be coming out of his mood if he’s deigning to play music. 

Sherlock finishes his composition with one final long note and then turns around, falling backwards over the arm of his functional black chair. His feet hang in the air, toes pointed gracefully like a ballet dancer and one arm is flung over the back of the chair while the other hangs low, fingertips brushing the floor. His violin is laying on his stomach, the bow between his body and the back of the chair so that the end is poking him in the face.

John watches him. A small smile graces the edge of his lips.

After a while, when the silence has settled in around them and John’s smile has faded and Sherlock is still in the same position, draped across the chair in a way that does not seem remotely comfortable, John speaks.

“I think we should retire.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, just stares at the ceiling. The silence settles in around them again, thick with questions and feelings.

“One more case,” he says, the first time he’s spoken in four days.

John looks up at him sharply.

“One more case,” he agrees.

Sherlock nods authoritatively and then stands up in a sinuous movement and stands facing the unlit fireplace. He raises his bow and the violin music washes over John again, chasing the silence out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so incredibly sorry that it took me so long to write this chapter. I moved two states away and got a job and I start my sophomore year of college on Monday, so I've kind of had other things to do. Umm, so yeah, as previously stated, I'm not sure if this is the last installment of the series or not, but I definitely left it open for a couple more if I want, so we'll see!

**Author's Note:**

> So the title comes from the Script song Breakeven. "And what am I supposed to say that I'm all choked up that you're okay?" I just thought it worked.
> 
> And if you've stayed with this series this long I suppose it's about time that you know my tumblr. I post updates there too, so if you want you can follow it. Or not, it doesn't really matter.  
> straightenshisbowtie.tumblr.com
> 
> And you're always welcome to leave comments telling me that I'm amazing, or that you hated it or what you think I can improve. I do prefer the first kind though, that's just kind of human nature.


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